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For years I have never travelled without a Union Jack. The idea of undertaking so long and dangerous a journey without it, filled me with strange foreboding. Everywhere on the Front I had my “flag.” In a state of coma at the military hospital, the nuns were in great distress because I had expressed a wish to be buried in the flag, which, being under my pillow, was nowhere to be found! Naturally, in Paris I had foreseen my need. But the registered trunk, booked to Rome, had fallen on evil days, and there will be no luck for the “thief,” who is probably polishing his boots with my sacred relic!

At first, I seemed unable to escape the lace-makers of Malta; and when, following the direction of a naval officer, I found myself at last in a real “Harrod’s Store,” my luck, also, was still out. At the Army and Navy, the managing director declared they had “no sale for Union Jacks.”... Each man possessed his own. He dared not sell me the firm’s flag, for an order to hoist it might be given at any moment; and, if he failed to obey, he would very likely be driven out of the island!